For Myself
by DandyLeonine
Summary: Draco doesn't have a choice. Potter said he could tell the wrong sort for himself. Perhaps he was right. My take on the Deathly Hallows Part II scene in which Draco crosses the no-man's land.


**Disclaimer: All recognizable characters, scenarios, and locations are property of J.K. Rowling. I have made no money from writing the following story; I have written it simply for my own enjoyment.**

**A/N: My take of the scene in Harry Potter and the D.H. part II, in which Draco crosses the no-man's land between the sides. **

**To anyone waiting on _The World Begins Again,_ my deepest apologies are in order. I will update soon. Really.**

**Enjoy!**

.~*~.

**For Myself**

**.~*~.**

"Draco," Lucius called, scanning the crowd before him and settling his eyes on his son. Draco's head was down, his hands folded in front of him; he didn't look up.

"Draco," Narcissa said, her quiet voice ringing crystal-clear through the perfectly silent crowd. Draco glanced up and winced as she reached out a hand, as though trying to reach across the no-man's land between them. "Come." She smiled, a little grimly, and kept her hand outstretched before her. _Please, _she thought, _Draco, just come back… it's okay, Draco, it will all be fine, I promise… _

_It's not over, Draco. Not yet._

Draco just stared at his mother, and even from this distance he could see the plea in her eyes; he was hurting her, by doing this, he was putting her in danger and he knew it. He felt his eyes prickle with tears, felt them threatening to escape as they clouded his vision; he looked down again, bit his lip and drew a shaky breath. Only one word could find a place in his mind, and it repeated over and over again, tonelessly, but louder each time: Why? _Why?_ _WHY?_ Why wasn't he walking across, reaching back to his parents? Fifty feet, that's all, _fifty feet_ and he'd be with them, he'd be _safe_! _Why_ wasn't he moving? Potter was—

_Dead._ Potter was dead. And the weight of the fact, the sharp edge of the realization, bore into him again and again. Potter's cold look on the train—"_I think I can tell the wrong sort for myself, thanks." _Potter's harsh words and suspicious glances, his—and his friends'—hysterical laugher as that madman Transfigured him into a ferret, that _curse _in the bathroom the previous year, his blood flowing everywhere, the tearing, _burning _pain it had caused… had it been only one year ago? But, Merlin, it felt like decades…

Potter, looking up at him in Draco's own home, silently pleading, _begging _Draco to stay quiet, to not reveal his identity. Potter, reaching for him, dragging him onto the broom behind him and… saving…

And now, he knew—he _knew—that _Potter was no longer an enemy, that he _couldn't _be an enemy anymore. Draco had seen _those_, had watched them kill each other over and over again; he swallowed hard, and wondered if Potter had ever truly been that to him. An enemy. Someone to kill.

"_I can tell the wrong sort for myself, thanks."_

Yes, Potter. You could.

_It doesn't matter_, he realized, and the voice in his mind was cold, dead, mechanical. Potter was _dead_, and Draco grit his teeth because _God damn it, _it _hurt_ and it _wasn't supposed to._ He looked up again and clenched his jaw. There was nothing _left_. It was _over_, and Draco's stomach churned, and he couldn't even pretend he was relieved.

He was absolutely sick, because now it was over. He was a dead man, no matter what happened now, he was _dead_, every bit as dead as Potter…

So he stepped forward. He braced himself for a curse, a shout, a jeer, _anything_ from the watching crowd; he was prepared for _anything_ except for those pitying, and, unbelievably, _sympathetic_ glances from his classmates—people he had seen every day, for years, had shared classes with, had occasionally nodded to in the corridors. They watched him in absolute silence as he walked across the open space, across the crumbling ground, across the shards of rock scattered around his feet.

He continued forward, not looking at Potter's corpse, not wanting to _see_ it because a part of him couldn't stand it. A dead childhood rival… it was not a rewarding thing to see, not something to joke about or jeer at, not something to _want_. He knew this now.

He knew a lot of things, now; he had learned. He had simply learned too _late_.

"Well done, Draco," the Dark Lord said, a threat as cold as ice thinly shrouded in something like encouragement. Draco said nothing, did not nod, did not acknowledge that he had heard him at all. Voldemort's eyes followed Draco's progress across the gap, and he stepped close to him, wrapping Draco in his arms, touching Draco very softly with the Elder Wand. Reminding him that he, Voldemort, owned him.

Draco inwardly cringed and remained completely still, rigid as a plank of wood in Voldemort's arms until he was released. As quickly as he could, he walked to his family, placed his hand in his mother's. She sighed in relief, wrapped an arm across his trembling back and guided him to stand beside her in the crowd. Narcissa glanced over at her son, sighing very slightly at the few remaining tears shimmered in his eyes. He blinked twice and stood a little straighter; his jaw was clenched tight but he was otherwise composed. Narcissa smiled, very slightly and only to herself; he was brave. Her son was _strong_ and, very soon, she knew, it would all be over.

They could _finally_ go home.

.~*~.

**A/N: I hope you enjoyed this little scene. Reviews are very welcome. :) **


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